So Fjord is still bad at making small-scale things with his hands. He takes one of the little paper boats Jason already made, to use as a sort of tutorial for himself, but it's very difficult actually making the lines... well, line up, and a few times he's ended up with just a sheet of paper covered in so many folds that it couldn't be turned into a boat at all.
He's not getting frustrated, as such, but it's a little disheartening.
Launch
He lingers behind a little, when all of the boats are finally sent out. Looks at all the little boats and paper lanterns and origami all gently floating on the water. The reprieve he had with Soldat and Rosinante earlier in the week rings in his ears as he walks forward, wading into the shallows until his boots are nearly fully covered in water, he raises both hands, letting them hover parallel to his hips, feeling the control he has over the water shift, easy and almost natural, and the water around him stills, ripples into glassy calm as far as the light touches.
"Your death wasn't meaningless," he says - quiet, but not enough that the Southern twang isn't easy to still hear from a distance. "We'll remember all of you."
He lifts his hands, and the waters immediately in front of him surge, swell to rise up to his knees as he lifts his hands to his chest - and gently, firmly pushes forward. The water around his knees turn into a wave, and crests, and all the little paper figures get caught up in the tiny wave of foam and pushed into motion, slowly setting out across the lake until they're just dim shapes in the dark. To wherever it might take them.
School
He feels lucky, in some small way, that he wasn't the one to bury Mollymauk's body in the first place. But at least he knew it was. That it wasn't just jammed in an open crate in a hole in the ground behind a pair of locked doors, half-destroyed and rotting and--
He pulls his brush away from where he's painting Molly's name, so the trembling in his hand doesn't ruin his work so far. He's not dexterous enough to do this well - he got Kal-El and Alisaie's names up alright, but Molly's...
It takes him a few more seconds until he can stop his hand again, and paints the rest of his name in the rich purple paint he's managed to mix up. Alisaie's is in a warm white, almost pink; Kal-El's is a soft blue. He's not artsy, but he still manages to paint something that mostly resembles a peacock feather, with a single red eye, underneath Mollymauk's name.
When he's done, he stands up, puts his paintbrush back on the table, and turns back to the wall. His hand starts at his side, and in a sharp splash of water that splatters against the ground, his golden falchion appears in his hand. The fancy trick at the harbor was for everyone else; this one's for him.
"Last time, Molly." His voice is quiet, nearly inaudible, and - for those who might still catch it - in his true accent.
He shifts his grip, flicks the sword up and in front of him, and back down in a firm sailor's salute.
Fjord | OTA
So Fjord is still bad at making small-scale things with his hands. He takes one of the little paper boats Jason already made, to use as a sort of tutorial for himself, but it's very difficult actually making the lines... well, line up, and a few times he's ended up with just a sheet of paper covered in so many folds that it couldn't be turned into a boat at all.
He's not getting frustrated, as such, but it's a little disheartening.
Launch
He lingers behind a little, when all of the boats are finally sent out. Looks at all the little boats and paper lanterns and origami all gently floating on the water. The reprieve he had with Soldat and Rosinante earlier in the week rings in his ears as he walks forward, wading into the shallows until his boots are nearly fully covered in water, he raises both hands, letting them hover parallel to his hips, feeling the control he has over the water shift, easy and almost natural, and the water around him stills, ripples into glassy calm as far as the light touches.
"Your death wasn't meaningless," he says - quiet, but not enough that the Southern twang isn't easy to still hear from a distance. "We'll remember all of you."
He lifts his hands, and the waters immediately in front of him surge, swell to rise up to his knees as he lifts his hands to his chest - and gently, firmly pushes forward. The water around his knees turn into a wave, and crests, and all the little paper figures get caught up in the tiny wave of foam and pushed into motion, slowly setting out across the lake until they're just dim shapes in the dark. To wherever it might take them.
School
He feels lucky, in some small way, that he wasn't the one to bury Mollymauk's body in the first place. But at least he knew it was. That it wasn't just jammed in an open crate in a hole in the ground behind a pair of locked doors, half-destroyed and rotting and--
He pulls his brush away from where he's painting Molly's name, so the trembling in his hand doesn't ruin his work so far. He's not dexterous enough to do this well - he got Kal-El and Alisaie's names up alright, but Molly's...
It takes him a few more seconds until he can stop his hand again, and paints the rest of his name in the rich purple paint he's managed to mix up. Alisaie's is in a warm white, almost pink; Kal-El's is a soft blue. He's not artsy, but he still manages to paint something that mostly resembles a peacock feather, with a single red eye, underneath Mollymauk's name.
When he's done, he stands up, puts his paintbrush back on the table, and turns back to the wall. His hand starts at his side, and in a sharp splash of water that splatters against the ground, his golden falchion appears in his hand. The fancy trick at the harbor was for everyone else; this one's for him.
"Last time, Molly." His voice is quiet, nearly inaudible, and - for those who might still catch it - in his true accent.
He shifts his grip, flicks the sword up and in front of him, and back down in a firm sailor's salute.